


A Priceless Pearl

by FestivalGrey



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Pathfinder (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Bad end, Breeding, Breeding Slave, Captivity, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Forced, Forced Pregnancy, Forced Prostitution, Impregnation, Pregnancy, Prostitution, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27219139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FestivalGrey/pseuds/FestivalGrey
Summary: A pandafolk noble's world changes when her entourage is set on by gnolls. She's taken and used, but that's only the beginning. Soon she finds herself at auction... and the most interested party is a breeding brothel.Written for anonymous; content warning for noncon themes. This is a bad end story!
Relationships: Pandafolk Noble/Her Captors
Kudos: 29





	A Priceless Pearl

**Author's Note:**

> [Hey you. You like my stuff? I have a Twitter!](https://twitter.com/FestivalGrey)
> 
> Based off of a tabletop world, though not any in particular.

The attack on your caravan falls shortly after dusk, the sky smoldering a low blue-purple with a smear of light on the horizon the only sign of the sun. You’d heard the stories before about this stretch of highway, everyone had—the gnolls who raided passing caravans, carrying off goods and people. But the tales also say that the raids are small, light, targeting those who travel in small numbers, who can’t defend themselves. So you and your entourage knew that the bandits wouldn’t dare test themselves against a noble’s well-trained guards.

But the raid was big, far bigger than you could have hoped for, indeed outnumbering your whole caravan by a great deal. You don’t watch the fighting—you have never had the stomach for violence. You’re well-bred, an aristocrat with a promising future ahead of her, traveling her way to her betrothed’s palace. Someone like _you_ just isn’t cut out for this sort of thing. So you hide in your palanquin behind the silken curtains, grimacing, hoping that the sounds stop soon (because of course they will, it’s not as if these ruffians have any chance against your men) and blanching with fear and terror as the sounds _don’t_ stop, as the sound of your men falling one by one reaches your ears.

When the violence stops the voices that rise over the highway are harsh and guttural, not pandafolk like yourself, and you can hear the scraping of metal as armor and weapons are stripped off of fallen guards and the dull thud of treasure chests being whacked open.

It can’t be, you think. There’s no way. It can’t have been.

You know you should escape, should flee before the gnolls realize you’re there, but fleeing would be admitting that you misjudged, and poking your head out from behind those curtains would show you the carnage; so you sit tight behind the curtains like a child hiding under the covers, terrified and sweating, hoping that the noises go away, until the curtain is pulled back and you fight yourself face-to-face with a pair of rangy interlopers.

The shock on the bandits’ face morphs into delight. “Got a live one, we do,” one of them croons, his voice strangely high for one so harsh and scruffy. With a wordless shout you try to push past them, but the gnolls effortlessly manhandle you onto the palanquin. One of them, his neck draped with a line of pearls that was to be a gift to your betrothed, yanks off everything of value he can find on you—brooches, jewelry, rings. The other ignores the finery entirely.

All he has eyes for is _you._

“What are you then?” he murmurs. One massive paw is keeping your wrists pinned; the other reaches down to trace along your side. You gasp at the touch, suddenly fearful. “The noble what thinks she’s worthy of passing through _our_ land?”

“This is… the king’s highway…” you manage to force out, and the gnoll laughs.

“Then let the king stop us, then. Oh yes, you’ve got a pedigree, ain’t you… Quite a special one. So pretty.”

By now his free hand is coursing all over you. He’s conjured a tiny knife from somewhere, the blade small and fine, and with it he peels you out of your silken clothes.

When the cool air bites your fur and skin, you shiver—and his eyes alight at that. “Got some _meat_ on you, don’t you?” he says with a laugh. Pandafolk have always been considered ‘chubby’ by the other races, and right now, you find yourself desperately hoping that he dislikes fat women, that your modest rolls will be enough to dissuade him.

But it is not to be. His eyes alight deliciously on you. “Like me a woman like that,” he croons. Stowing the knife away, he trades places with his greedy compatriot, the ring-taker holding your hands down as he reaches down to pry your legs apart.

“W-wait,” you say, voice stuttering with fear. You try to keep your legs shut but it’s worthless, completely worthless, his strength is inexorable. “I have… treasures, to ransom for my… my s-safety…”

Both gnolls laugh at that. “Treasures?” says the one holding your wrists. “Like _these,_ luv?” He jangles the pearls in emphasis.

“Already got me some treasures,” the other one says. He’s positioning himself near your entrance, now; fearfully, you can see his cock, thick and tapered at the end, pink like a berry.

This is happening, you realize. This is it.

“Want me another, I thinks,” he says, and then he pushes in.

Your initial reaction is to arch your back, push up your wrists, cry out, _something_ —but the gnolls have too solid a handle on you, and so you’re left writhing and sobbing, pinned under their weight, as they take you.

You’re saying things. Pleads, probably, for them to stop, or promises to pay them off, or even just wordless protestations. It doesn’t matter. Whatever little bit of pleasure you could have squeezed out of this is overridden by the savagery of his thrusts, the ferocity of his hugeness inside of you, the wash of his rancid breath.

“Wuz wrong, luv,” he croons, panting with delight at one particularly deep buck that makes your head spin. “Can’t recognize good cock when you sees it? Or maybe—maybe a prissy, fancypants pandafolk noble’s too _good_ to get some dick from the common man?”

The words come out almost before you realize you’re saying them. “You’re… no man…” you say, your voice almost incoherent from the strain of him forcing himself on you. “You’re… _brutes…_ ”

They both laugh. “That we are, sweetheart,” the one with the jewels says, leaning over to nip at your ear. The sharp bite somehow reaches you amidst the cavalcade of sensations from his compatriot fucking you, making you whimper. “Get used to it. I think there’s gonna be a lot of brutes in your life from here on out.”

The bandit cums in you soon after, voice hitched in a pleasurable growl. He reaches up and roughly kneads your fat tit, not for your sake but for his, and shudders and smiles when he hears your miserable moan.

Afterwards, he and his partner swap places, and you get fucked a second time.

The second assault leaves you reeling and confused, and you barely notice when they wrap a cord around your neck until they’re hauling you up. “Come on, slut,” one of them mocks. “Up and at ‘em.”

You’re yanked out of the confines of your palanquin, your cunt abused and sore and sopping, and all you can do is stare wide-eyed at the remnants of your caravan. The wagons have been splintered, anything remotely valuable pilfered from their remains. The gnolls had little use for your guards, it seems, and you avoid looking at them. But the servants are another story. Mostly pandafolk like you, they’re quivering in cords and ropes and chains, wide-eyed and fearful. Some are gagged, and two of your ladies-in-waiting are being treated to the same debasement which the gnolls had visited upon you just recently.

One of the servants meets your face, eyes wide. “Mistress!” she cries. “Mistress, we—”

Whatever she has to say, it’s roughly cut off as she is shoved to the earth. As she struggles to stand, one of the gnolls, chuckling, steps up to her and stuffs her mouth full of cock.

“That oughtta shut her up, eh?” he chortles, and his compatriots hoot and holler in agreement as he bucks into her throat.

Cheeks burning with fear and degradation, you avoid looking at the servant, who is sobbing and whimpering around the member filling her mouth and take your place alongside the rest of the captives.

And once the gnolls are finished with their fun, the long march begins.

\---

You’ve never been good with directions—north, east, west, south; unless you have a sunrise to stare at and orient yourself with, it might as well have been gibberish. All you know is that by the time you’re done, brought to a warren of tunnels in volcanic rock hidden several miles from the king’s highway, your paws are sore and bleeding and you’re about ready to pass out.

The gnolls bind and gag you and shove you onto a filthy straw pallet, but even this paltry comfort seems like a heavenly boon after what you underwent today. You fall asleep almost immediately, praying that when you wake up you’ll be back in the palanquin journeying to meet your betrothed, all of this just a worrisome dream.

How fruitless such hopes inevitably are. You awaken to the scent of sweat and dirt and despair, and echoing from further down the chamber is the plaintive moan of some poor woman being used for the only thing that bandits like these gnolls use them for.

You rise shakily, still aware how your cunt throbs even today, aware of the crusted juices around your loins, and take stock of the other captives.

There’s a wide variety. Goblins, halflings, ratkin, even a dragonborn bound and muzzled to the wall with heavy chains. There are more females here than males, many more.

You try to stand only to discover that sometime during the night, they chained _you_ up as well.

The slavers wander in and out throughout the day and you’re able to see the variety of ways in which the others react to them. Some, like the orc woman on the opposite wall, are feisty and combative, hurling obscenities at them and not stopping even when she is backhanded to the floor. Others, like the dryad a few paces down from you, are fearful and quiet, never looking up unless spoken to, quivering yet not protesting as a bored-looking gnoll leans over her, spreads her legs, and takes her right there in front of everyone.

Worse still is the halfling with the curled red hair. One of the slavers has her on a custom leash and she toddles along after him like a puppy, all beaming and attentive. You try not to notice how swollen her belly is, how milky her tits are, the amused hunger with which her master looks at her. You wonder whether those are half-gnoll pups she carries or if another slave was put to stud on her. You then wonder which would be worse.

Some of your servants are in the chamber too, and when they stir, everything goes wrong.

“Mistress!” one calls out. “Mistress, please, help!”

You are like the dryad. You keep your head down, not daring to answer, trying to _will_ them quiet.

“What’s going to happen to us, mistress!”

Be quiet, you think, don’t provoke them, don’t draw attention to yourself. Just keep your head down for a few days until the king sends a rescue party (for you have no doubt that the party is going to be coming soon, it _has_ to be, not after the loss of a noble, the king won’t let that stand); just shut up and wait!

While most of the servants eventually give up on getting anything out of you, one of them is insistent. “Mistress, mistress!” she wails continuously. “Mistress, please, help, why aren’t you _talking!”_

Some of the other slaves—the orc, most especially—pipe up as well, lambasting you for not responding or trying to stir up sentiment against their captors. The rest of you are too smart to fall for it. You know better. You know how dangerous it will be to fall into this trap.

So when the gnolls show up, wondering what the racket is, it’s not you they punish. It’s the orc, and your servant. The orc is merely smacked around, but your servant, who couldn’t keep her mouth shut and started the whole thing, is dragged screaming to the middle of the chamber and made to service gnoll after gnoll after gnoll—five rounds total, nonstop. By the third one she’s begging for mercy, by the fourth she’s incoherent; when they lead her back to the wall her eyes are vacant, distant, and for as long as they keep you, you never hear more than a peep from her.

It’s hard to make sense of time in the depths of the cave, where there’s no natural light; where the candles flickering on the walls could as easily be noon as midnight. You sleep when you tire, drink water from a rusty cup when they bring it, try not to gag on stale bread.

Any day now, the king’s men will arrive. They have to. They have to!

You don’t know how long it is before they unchain you. A little over a week, probably. Perhaps two. You’ve been fixed to the wall for so long that your joints ache when you stand, and you nearly topple over. You avoid that regardless, knowing that they punish females who don’t stand in time the way they _always_ punish them.

Your last rape was on the day you were captured, and you want to keep it that way.

When you’re marched out of the caverns, it’s as part of a _massive_ train of slaves, dozens strong at least. There are so many races chained up: goblins and half-goblins and elves and kobolds and shifters. There are pandafolk besides those in your party; you wonder if they recognize the sheen of your fur, the glowing jade color of your eyes, as that of their nobility. Whenever they glance your way, you look down, not wanting them to see.

There are more personalities on display as the slaves are marched along—simpering suck-ups eager to report on troublemakers if they think their masters will toss a treat their way, numb mutes who say or do _nothing,_ one especially combative ratkin who makes even the orc look pleasant. She is willing to fight anyone or anything she can get her hands on, and you find yourself thankful you’re not within grabbing reach.

The march takes days, and when you arrive, you gawp.

It’s like an impromptu fair, almost, in the farthest reach of the kingdom—but instead of good men and women there to have fun with family and friends, everyone at the ‘fair’ looks nastier than the last. Criminals, cutpurses, footpads, corrupt nobles; brothel madams, harlots, pliers of alcohol and hallucinogenic roots; and _slavers_ everywhere, with row upon row of miserable-looking captives.

The sheer scale of it all makes you pause. Of course, everyone in the kingdom knew that society had a seedy underbelly; just because the king’s great-grandfather outlawed slavery didn’t mean that trafficking in sentients would just disappear overnight, or that there wasn’t demand. But at least among the ruling class, among someone like _you,_ there was the unspoken assumption that it was a small problem, an issue the poorfolk blew out of proportion again and again. You always had some peasant whining that her son had disappeared when hunting one night, and who could believe her assertion that slavers had gotten him when it’s oh-so-very-obvious that he ran off with some loose woman the next village over?

But now that you’re here, now that you can _see_ it, you realize that just how big the scope of the problem really is.

Your captors take you to a pre-arranged area, tie you up; beers are swilled, coins change hands, and before long it’s time for the auction.

You watch it happen numbly as slave after slave is dragged up onto the podium. The auctioneer, a snide-looking hobgoblin, rattles off pre-arranged information for each slave. The bidding begins, sometimes finishing quickly, sometimes dragging on for a surprising period.

That feisty orc is one of the first put on display. As the hobgoblin strolls around her, cupping her swamp-green breasts and boasting of her healthy straw-colored hair, she snarls and lunges at him, only just held back by her chains.

“Feisty!” comes a call from the crowd, and the observers erupt with laughter. “I love breaking in ones like that!” says another.

“Hellions!” she snarls. “All of you will taste my _blade!_ ”

“Wonder how excitable she’d be with a kid weighing her down?” the auctioneer jibes. “Eh?” The crowd rumbles with appreciative laughter.

The bidding starts at sixteen silver crowns. It rises to eighteen—twenty—thirty—and caps out at forty-five crowns, more than a peasant household would make in three years. “For the gentleman in the back!” the hobgoblin says, and the crowd laughs uproariously as the orc is gagged and led out to him.

The dragonborn is brought out next, all done up in chains. “A rarity from the northern mountains!” the auctioneer calls out. “Imagine the heavy burdens such a specimen could bear—if you have enough will to see it done!”

Bidding starts at one gold sovereign, equivalent to one hundred crowns; the sort of money even a merchant would balk at spending without due consideration. As you’ve watched the process, you’ve come to notice that certain parties bid for certain people. Males—especially big, burly males—typically devolve into a three-way war between the Redstone Bannermen, who always need more shock troops; a clan of goblins from the far north; and the representative for the Stonetooth Salt Mine, across the sea. It is this man who claims the dragonborn for a life in the mines for the price of a whopping four sovereigns.

The first time one of your servants is sold, you heart breaks. Even if the king stages a rescue of you, how are you going to stop this diaspora? What could you ever possibly _do?_

One of your ladies-in-waiting is sold to a lecherous-looking noble with holdings on the frontier, and she meets your eyes in quiet desperation as she is led away, both of you gagged. Others are sold to brothels—there are a number of them here, from seedy organizations clear up to the Pearl’s Nest.

You’d never even thought the Nest real until today. Purported to be a crime syndicate unto itself, with branches operated in every harbor and major city, the Pearl’s Nest is a high-class brothel catering in the tastes of the rich and wealthy, if the stories tell true. There are rumors that wayward noblewomen find themselves in its silken clasp, and darker whispers that it is a _breeding_ brothel, in which a harlot might find herself with child.

One of your ladies is sold to them and you can hear her desperate, muted cries as she is carried off to their camp.

Now it’s your turn.

You are led up onto the podium, leashed and gagged, nude to all the world. The hobgoblin leers at you and announces your name.

The attendees all gasp.

“Yes,” he says, “we have _nobility_ up for sale today. The pedigree of one of the pandafolk’s finest families. You’ll have access to centuries of history, touching flesh that none could ever hope to see… oh, and I have it on _very_ good authority that she’s quite tight.” He reaches over and strokes the inside of your thighs; against your judgment you arch your head back, snorting air in and out, furious, shamed, fearful. Some of those assembled here are nobles; will they do nothing to help you? To set you free?

No, you think; not these men. They are here for one purpose.

Like some of the other slaves, you are forced through an excruciating showing-off period; made to kneel, to spread your legs, to stand there and take it as the auctioneer cups and paws your breasts. “Looks like she’s had a bit to go!” he says, grabbing your chub to the mocking laughter of the crowd. You can feel your cheeks burning underneath your fur. “But they say that among the pandafolk, squishiness is an indicator of fertility… so who here’s ready to lay claim to her pedigree? A noble like her can certainly claim to be of good breeding—so why not show her some ‘good breeding’ of your own! Many more pandas to come, eh?”

A rumble of mockery rolls over the assemblage and you feel yourself awash in a mix of horror and humiliation. They can’t be—they can’t be talking about you that way, like you’re just something to be _bred,_ like some master’s prize hounds, just pumping out children with no say…

“For this plump little vixen,” the auctioneer says, “let’s start the bidding at one gold sovereign.”

The goblin clan immediately raises it to a sovereign and twenty crowns, and then Lord Umber, his eyes cold and hungry, matches them ten crowns more. The clan raises it to a sovereign and thirty—

“Two sovereigns.”

The voice comes from the representative of the Pearl’s Nest. Her eyes are focused right on you; the fan she uses to hide her mouth is folded up.

No, you think. Not the Nest. Not a breeding brothel!

Umber raises it ten more silver, another brothel raises it ten more, the goblins speak up—

 _“Four_ sovereigns.”

The Nest’s representative speaks again, and the crowd is hushed. That already matches what was paid for the dragonborn, the highest number you’ve heard so far today. The Nest must… must really want you.

Oh, gods in heaven, anything but that.

The goblins melt away, as does the smaller brothel, but Umber turns to meet the Nest’s representative’s eyes with his own. “I’ll raise by fifty crowns,” he says.

Would you rather be with him? You know nothing of him except that he has two separate keeps and is a distant relation to the royal family. Would he be better than… than being bred?

“Five sovereigns.”

The price is staggering. Unreal. You could buy out a merchant house for that much. Perversely, part of you feels proud at how much they feel you are worth.

Lord Umber looks frustrated, but he demurs; and so it is that, commanding the highest price yet, you are sold to the Pearl’s Nest.

You are property.

You are led off the stage, mind reeling. Oh gods. The stories they tell of the Nest—no escape, endless _breeding_ —and led to a covered wagon. The representative follows.

When you are in the wagon, the moment they take the gag out, you spit out a desperate command: “My father will pay for me—you’ll be so wealthy—”

The man who unchained you slaps a rag smelling of perfume over your face, and your protests die there.

\---

You wake up in an unfamiliar place. White satin sheets, tasteful opulence on the walls, the sound of people outside.

When you go to rise, the shackles stop you.

“Mmph! _Mrrrrrpmhl_!” Your protests are made vague muffles by your silken gag. Realizing that help isn’t coming, that the king _can’t_ save you, for the first time in your captivity you truly fight and thrash about.

It’s as worthless for you as it is for all the others.

Hours after you wake, a ratkin woman comes to visit. She is flint-eyed, aged, no-nonsense, and you immediately pick her up as the brothel’s madame.

She kneels in front of you, her eyes sweeping up and down your form like an art collector appraising a new portrait. She seems pleased with what she finds.

“Do you know,” she says, “what you are now?”

You try to answer despite the gag, begging her to free you, doesn’t she know how wealthy your family is? They’ll pay her back the sovereigns, all that and more!

None of the words come out, but she seems displeased with your answer nonetheless. “Such willfulness,” she says. “Come.” She affixes a leash to you, and, still gagged and bound hand and foot, you lamely follow her out.

She leads you to a room with several slaves, at least a dozen; all of them are about your age, all female, all…

Oh gods. All in various stages of pregnancy.

“How are we, girls?” the ratkin asks cheerily as she steps inside. The slaves murmur inconsequentially in response. She leads you over to one, a dryad so swollen that she barely looks capable of movement. “And what’s this? Your third?”

“Fourth… madam…” the dryad says, not meeting the older woman’s eyes.

The ratkin smiles, and you get the sense she knew it was fourth. “Do you like it here?” she asks.

“Y-yes…”

“And what about you, hmmm?”

A halfling against the wall, only just starting to show, nods. “Oh yes, ma’am.”

“We treat you well?”

A flurry of nods and agreement.

She turns to you. “And there you have it. Your life in the Pearl’s Nest will be happy and hearty. After all, whatever you _used_ to be, you’re ours now. A breeding slave.”

Looking behind her you see the arrangement of pregnant slaves, each of them bred, and see them looking at you with pity and resignation, and you realize—there’s no escaping this, is there.

You begin to weep, and the madam doesn’t seem to mind at all.

Still weeping, you are led away from the chamber with the pregnant women into a fitting room. You snuffle and moan when they remove your gag, but don’t bother with words. It’s clear now that nothing you say will save you.

You’re fitted for a pretty new collar, a supple thing of treated white leather that is hardier than it looks. The busybody who makes your collar (herself sporting a bountiful belly, you note) hums to herself as she works.

The collar is slipped around your throat like it belongs there, like it’s a natural part of yourself. Reaching up to it, you find it impossible to slip a finger or even a nail underneath it; that’s how tight the fit is. You swallow and feel a tiny bite of pressure on your throat before it lessens away.

There’s no tag on the collar, no name etched on there—it’s a simple working of leather and metal, the craftsmanship divine. The only thing is an insignia—three spheres in a net. The sigil of the Pearl’s Nest. No one who ever looked at you wearing such a thing could ever think that you are anything but owned. Property. An object.

“Very well done,” the matron says, watching you with her hands folded over one another. “Now I think it’s time for your first client.”

“Please no,” you whisper, reaching up to your new collar once again. “Please.”

\---

But your first client isn’t what you’d think. You expected to be thrown onto a bed, railed and raped. But instead you are trussed up in gauzy, fragile harem clothes, the sheer fabric doing little to hide your natural plumpness. Forced out in front of a crowd of young men, you are made to dance.

You’ve never danced like this before, the way they want you to—lewd, teasing, enticing. The men don’t mind anyway, deriving pleasure from seeing you humiliate yourself, but afterwards, the madam has you beaten.

The next day you dance better, or so you hope, but the men are not interested, and you are punished again. But soon enough you have it down, undulating your hips and sashaying it so that the cloth flutters as if on a breeze. Punishments have ceased, food is good, and you oftentimes forget that the Nest’s collar is even there.

There’s sex, too. Of course there is. It’s a brothel. But despite the rough hands of some of the customers, it’s not as bad as you would have thought. You slip under sheets, ride their cocks, and that’s that, most of the time. You realize one day that you’re getting used to this—hate that you’re used to it, that at times you even enjoy it. But there’s nothing else you could do.

But one day, about a month and a half after you first woke up in the brothel, the madam comes with a special soup.

“Your rights have been purchased,” she says, saying it as easily as she might tell a fishmonger she wanted his wares. “One week from today, you will be bred.” She pushes the bowl at you. “Fertility herbs. Eat.”

You shove the bowl out of her hands and spend the next half week regretting it. They can _make_ you swallow soup.

They can make you do so much more.

The day comes and you’re back in chains again, dangling from the wall with your legs forced apart. Your cunt is exposed to the air again and you shudder with fear as your ‘client’ approaches you. He’s of the same race as you, though with an unfamiliar air and accent. He must be older than your father.

“Truly delectable,” he said.

You’ve been gagged of course, but you still moan pathetically—and your voice hitches higher as he takes you.

His cock absolutely ravages your cunt, making you squeal and whine. You flutter around him despite your best efforts, and shamefully, as he continues using you, you end up… liking it.

You cum, too.

Afterwards you’re left chained against the wall, immobile, panting, leaking cum out of your hole, wondering how it ever came to this.

Your belly starts to swell not long after.

It’s a quiet despair that seeps into you then. Somehow it had never seemed real until the moment when you realize you’re gravid: everything from the collar to the outfit to even the act of insemination itself could have been written off, ignored, _something,_ but as you sit there and realize you have someone’s bastard brat in your belly, you realize that this is it. You’re _not_ going home again. You’re _not_ seeing your betrothed, not going to carry his child.

This is who and what you are now. A breeding slave.

You’re treated more delicately in your new condition, now. Fewer ‘sessions’ with clients, punishments less and less severe. Whereas before you could expect to spend the day dancing away or underneath some sheets, now you are being told to do chores. In the harem outfit, of course. You’re expected to exercise _some_ decency.

As you work and work and work, free from the demands of dancing or servicing, you’re left alone with your own thoughts and you realize that you’re terrified of what will happen to your child. Will it go to the initial client, or be kept by the Nest? Both are options you hate. Male children are often sold as laborers if the Nest can’t find a spot they fit. Female children kept by the Nest are raised with a particular goal in mind, of course. They inherit their mothers’ positions.

One day, close to the end, while you are struggling along to complete your chores in time, a kick to the inside of your tummy makes you halt, and you glance down.

What if that’s a female in there? What if she ends up like you?

But then, would it matter if it wasn’t? They’d just knock you up again. Breed you again, until they had a girl.

This is your life now. You’re here to fuck, to get fucked… and to squeeze out kids whose destinies you’ll share.

Your hand drifts up to the collar one last time. It’s never coming off.

And your new life is only just beginning.


End file.
